Volume I Part 17 (1/2)
[94] She was the grandmother of Lady Russell.
[95] Elizabeth Vernon was first cousin to Ess.e.x. ”Was it treason?” asks Ess.e.x indignantly, in one of his eloquent letters; ”Was it treason in my Lord of Southampton to marry my poor kinswoman, that neither long imprisonment, nor any punishment besides that hath been usual in such cases can satisfy or appease?”
[96] Sonnets 127, 130
[97] Sonnet 128.
[98] See ”Douce's Ill.u.s.trations of Shakspeare.”
[99] Sonnets 80, 83.
[100] Sonnet 172.
[101] Sonnets 110, 111.
CHAPTER XVI.
SYDNEY'S STELLA.
At the very name of Sir Philip Sydney,--the generous, gallant, all-accomplished Sydney,--the roused fancy wakes, as at the sound of a silver trumpet, to all the gay and splendid a.s.sociations of chivalry and romance. He was in the court of Elizabeth, what Surrey had been in that of her father, Henry the Eighth; and like his prototype. Sir Calidore in the Fairy Queen,--
Every look and word that he did say Was like enchantment, that through both the ears And both the eyes, did steal the heart away.
And as Surrey had his Fair Geraldine, Sydney had his STELLA.
Simplicity was not the fas.h.i.+on of Elizabeth's age in any particular: the conversation and the poetry addressed by her stately romantic courtiers to her and her maids of honour, were like the dresses they wore,--stiff with jewels and standing on end with embroidery, gorgeous of hue and fantastic in form; but with many a brilliant gem of exceeding price, scattered up and down, where one would scarce think to find them; losing something of their effect by being misplaced, but none of their inherent beauty and value. The poetry of Sir Philip Sydney was extravagantly admired in his own time, and it has since been less read than it deserves. It contains much of the pedantic quaintness, the laboured ornament, the c.u.mbrous phraseology, which was the taste, the language of the day: but he had elegance of mind and tenderness of feeling; above all, he was in earnest, and accordingly, there are beautiful and brilliant things scattered through both his poetry and prose. If his ”Phoenix-Stella” be less popularly celebrated than the Fair Geraldine,--her name less intimate with our fancy,--it is not because her poet lacked skill to immortalize her in superlatives: it is the recollection of the mournful fate and darkened fame of that beautiful but ill-starred woman, contrasted with the brilliant career and spotless glory of her lover, which strikes the imagination with a painful contrast, and makes us reluctant to dwell on her memory.
The Stella of Sydney's poetry, and the Philoclea of his Arcadia, was the Lady Penelope Devereux, the elder sister of the favourite Ess.e.x. While yet in her childhood, she was the destined bride of Sydney, and for several years they were considered as almost engaged to each other: it was natural, therefore, at this time, that he should be accustomed to regard her with tenderness and unreproved admiration, and should gratify both by making her the object of his poetical raptures. She was also less openly, but even more ardently, loved by young Charles Blount, afterwards Lord Mountjoy, who seems to have disputed with Sydney the first place in her heart.
She is described as a woman of exquisite beauty, on a grand and splendid scale; dark sparkling eyes; pale brown hair; a rich vivid complexion; a regal brow and a n.o.ble figure. Sydney tells us that she was at first ”most fair, most cold;”--and the beautiful sonnet,
”With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the sky![102]
How silently, and with how wan a face!”
refers to his earlier feelings. He describes a tilting-match, held in presence of the Queen and Court, in which he came off victor--
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, Guided so well, that I obtained the prize, &c.[103]
”Stella looked on,” he says, ”and from her fair eyes sent forth the encouraging glance that gave him victory.” These soft and brilliant eyes are often and beautifully touched upon; and it must be remarked, never without an allusion to the _modesty_ of their expression.
O eyes! that do the spheres of beauty move, Which while they make Love conquer, conquer Love.
And on some occasion, when she turned from him bashfully, he addresses her in a most impa.s.sioned strain,--
Soul's joy! bend not those morning stars from me, Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might, Where love is chasteness--pain doth learn delight And humbleness doth dwell with majesty: Whatever may ensue, O let me be Copartner of the riches of that sight; Let not mine eyes be h.e.l.l-driven from that light.
O look! O s.h.i.+ne! O let me die, and see![104]
Another, ”To Sleep,” is among the most beautiful, and I believe more generally known.
Lock up, fair lids! the treasure of my heart! &c.